Stars That Fell
by ImaPseudonym
Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.  Darkfic, eventual Peter/Neal slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Stars that Fell (1/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG (eventual NC17)

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Pairings: Neater (in varying flavors of mutual, unreciprocated, coerced, and wishful.)

Warnings: This will be a very dark fic, including major character death, kidnapping, dub-con, non-con, betrayal, law-breaking, and dark humor. Seriously, I've been calling this my "Peter goes crazy" fic. It may be triggery, may be upsetting. May rock your socks. Ya'll done been warned.

There will be spoilers up to S3E10.

Notes: I started writing this story (and another fic that goes a whole different direction) directly after 'Countdown' aired. (The episode ends with Peter and Neal discovering Elizabeth was kidnapped by Matthew Keller.)

This takes place an unspecified amount of time after the kidnapping: Likely somewhere between a few days, to a week.

So strap in kiddies, because here we go.

-x-x-x-x-

Neal had thought for one terror-stricken instant that Peter might go for his gun when news came of her death.

A bullet for Neal?

_It was my fault. My fault. This is my doing. _

A bullet for Peter, himself? Neal's self-interest forgot to kick in when the latter thought scared him more.

But Hughes had stepped in and calmly, slowly invaded his agents' personal space, removing the piece. Only then did he offer his condolences; the sound a metaphorical gunshot in the silenced office. Words stuck in Neal's throat. Not because he didn't care -Christ, the only person who cared more was the widower who had been happily married Peter Burke- but because he was afraid of what would happen if those blank eyes turned to him, and saw the full assumption of guilt.

They didn't turn. Agent Jones pulled Neal in one direction, and Hughes guided Peter the other.

Jones had tears on his cheeks, and Neal wondered if they were for Elizabeth or Peter.

They were in the hallway before one hiccough released Neal's own violent sobs. Jones ushered him past curious agents and onto the elevator, hitting the button to stop it between floors; give the conman time to collect himself.

He didn't. Neal rubbed at his eyes with the finely-woven sleeve of his expensive jacket, until they were red and raw; didn't notice when his nose was mashed into the agent's shoulder, staining it with snot and spit and saline.

But after several minutes, he was able to stand without the physical support: Was able to sniffle noisily, and wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.

"I'm taking him to his apartment. I'll keep watch." Jones murmured into his phone, quiet like his volume would set Neal off again.

Neal didn't bother asking if his being watched was protection from Keller, himself, or Peter.

He didn't offer Jones a drink, but the agent helped himself to a bottle of seldom touched gin.

The first words he spoke since the worst moment of his life were in anger. "Get out!" he'd screamed at Mozzie as the eccentric man made to enter the room with grief and apology written on his face. And then, "Get the fuck off me!" to Jones who had stopped Neal mid-lunge at his oldest, truest friend.

Mozzie didn't argue. Didn't say a word. Only turned, slowly, and left.

It had been Neal's say so, but Mozzie's plan; the daring and ingenious operation to retain the treasure, free Elizabeth, and keep themselves out of prison.

Neal knew it was his own fault, but he couldn't scream at himself to get out. Couldn't tangibly hate himself.

He did, anyway, but Mozzie was an easier outlet.

Neal didn't speak to Peter for months, after that day. The agent had been pulled off duty for grieving and grief counseling and anything else that involved both grief and time. No person in the White Collar division was in contact with him, but Peter's continued silence wounded and worried his CI.

Keller remained elusive. The team was obliged to bring Neal back in as their best source of information.

He'd been under house arrest; the generous two-mile radius reduced to June's spacious home. Somehow, he felt cooling his heels back in prison would have been better. Penance was hard to come by when you had a million dollar view, and Italian roast beverages. June kept her home very well-stocked.

Back to work, the world shifted with alarming ease back to business as usual. Only Agent Burke's absence and the intimately personal nature of the case belayed normality. It became another new routine, for Neal. For weeks he slid quietly into an agent's waiting car, kept his head low, and didn't raise it until he was back in his loft where the walls added his failures to a rich history that couldn't be recounted.

And then one evening, as his chin made that long-awaited upward tilt, he was no longer alone with the ghosts of criminals past.

Peter was clean-shaven, but his eyes were red and his clothing wrinkled. He stood slowly, from his perch on the edge of Neal's bed, eyes not leaving the conman. As always, though far more acutely than usual, Neal was conscious of the height difference between them: The difference in sheer strength. They hadn't been alone together since before Elizabeth was kidnapped; let alone since she…

He could admit to being afraid. But he stood his ground, ignoring every instinct that screamed 'run'.

"I need in, Neal. I need to take him down." Peter said, exhaling shakily as though the effort to speak cost him greatly.

Neal opened his mouth to respond, but words caught on a hitched breath. There were no ready words, anyway: Nothing that could be conveyed around the lump in his throat, except for one terse nod.

Neal didn't cry. Peter did. The consultant stood awkwardly by, unable to breach the distance between the corporeal and emotional, as his mind ached to place a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, and recoiled at the thought of closeness to anyone.

"I'll- I'll figure it out." The younger man promised in the horrible silence that fell after the choked sobs had finally tapered off.

It turned out to be fairly easy.

"Peter's in, or I'm out." Neal threatened at one of the endless conferences.

They ranted and railed and threatened, throwing around phrases and words like 'implicated', 'withholding evidence', and '-throw away the key' but nothing shook his determination.

Peter came back from his leave as a consultant on the case, until he could demonstrate professional impartiality; or at least that he could tolerate Keller's name spoken aloud without going postal.

The only trouble was he demonstrated too well. The agent threw himself into the case with a focus so chillingly calm that he seemed monstrously aloof.

Hughes had his misgivings (and he wasn't alone in them), but full control over the case was given to Peter with the understanding that he would let another agent lead in potential arrest situations, and that he wasn't allowed anywhere near Keller when they caught him.

The reinstated agent kept Neal close at all times in the office, and only guilt stayed the conman's protests. It was torture seeing what had become of Peter Burke. Everyone else kept their distance.

Burke-Caffrey, formerly the golden, sitcom-worthy, duo became the sad pariah of the New York branch: The cold, tireless machine, and his cringing but faithful pet convict.

Mozzie was abroad following in the desperate, sometimes bloody wake of Keller's flight. The FBI received the anonymous tips almost daily, and devoured the information. Keller was getting sloppy, getting slow, when it all went to Hell.

The FBI trapped Keller as close to home as Chicago. They were finally ready to move in for the kill, in contact with the Chicago PD, when a frail-looking man came into the building. He stopped in the bull pen, and remained unnervingly silent until every eye was trained on him.

"My name's Alan Davis," he stated, " and I would like to confess to the abduction and murder of Elizabeth Burke."

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: 'TeH hEllll?' you say? Stay tuned! I've got a large chunk of the story finished, and a few alternate endings rolling around, upstairs (from sad, to hopeful, to nonsensical). This chapter was mostly the setup and reasons behind character behaviors for the rest of the story. The next chapter will get darker (which should be saying something considering the story opened with a major death.)

Feedback?


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Stars That Fell (2/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke responds in kind.

Warnings: There's some vaguely concerning behavior presented by Peter and Neal (in different ways), but nothing really worth mentioning by comparison to future chapters. This chapter should finish setting up the main plot to come, and clear up a few things you'll need to know about how things went down in my story's universe.

I know nothing about how law-enforcing agencies operate. I also know nothing about the legal system, except I'm an argumentative (and therefor undesirable) juror. In short, the things I write about? Mostly, I'm guessing.

-x-x-x-x-

Chapter Two

For one suspended moment, no one spoke: Even as Jones stumbled to his feet, and scattered papers across his desk to locate a set of handcuffs. A phone rang, someone whispered "oh my God." And then Hughes had materialized outside Peter's office, where Neal was doing his best to keep his handler from snapping.

Protocol, if not belief, led to an arrest, and Peter was immediately and firmly banned from the impending interrogation, or any other close-quarters interaction with the suspect. Only Hughes' allowance that Diana would conduct the questioning kept a reign on the agent's temper. Neal wasn't officially restricted from attending, but Peter's barely trembling hold on his sleeve kept him in place.

For three hours, Neal kept his eyes down while Peter paced in the fish tank of a room, on display to the curious, sympathetic glances from below. The wheels in the former conman's head were spinning like crazy, but no thought would settle. It was all too strange, too unexpected, and he felt like he'd failed Peter again by not predicting Keller's latest distraction in the chase to catch him.

As it turned out, this red herring also did tricks.

Alan Davis knew everything.

He could calmly recite every detail they FBI had pieced together about the crime scenes involving the abduction and murder of Elizabeth Burke; from the windowless room where she was found, to the surveillance-free pawn shop where the gun was purchased. His story matched evidence. It didn't matter that the evidence had seemed suspiciously planted from the beginning, which had added the unsettling notion that murder had been the intention all along.

He couldn't stand the guilt, Davis told Diana. He hadn't meant to kill her, he said. The list of criminals he named could have feasibly relayed information about the treasure, although it was unlikely the bureau would ever discover definite proof of his having met with any of them.

Despite his testimony, and the vaguely plausible motive, no person in the White Collar division believed this man had committed the crime. No one could piece together why someone (presumed innocent) would ever confess to the murder of an FBI agent's wife. None of it added up, until his file was received.

Stage four stomach cancer, no life insurance, and a family to care for. It supported the idea of someone desperate for money; but not the idea of a murderer.

However, with physical evidence such as it was (almost nonexistent—professionally nonexistent), there were no concrete ties to Keller except Peter's assurance that it had been him on the phone the night El was abducted. With Davis's assurance and free confession to a murder he couldn't serve more than a few months for, countless hours of FBI work (tying it to Keller) went up in flames.

Davis was convicted. He hadn't refused an attorney. It didn't matter.

Keller was quietly arrested in Chicago, and charged with a dozen relatively minor crimes. Charges and witnesses were being dropped in a way that suggested well-greased palms, until only entirely irrefutable crimes remained; escaping from the prison transport bus, hotwiring a car, and trespassing in a construction zone (the full term of which had never been carried out). Keller wasn't afraid to sell out any and every person he'd ever known, to get himself an even better deal than massive, (not so) mysterious wealth could purchase.

Within a month of his capture, he had bribed and bargained his way to a two-year sentence with a chance for early parole consideration.

As he was escorted from the courtroom, post-sentence, he smirked at the lone New Yorker seated on the back row.

Money had purchased his innocence. Money he'd received because of Neal's dishonesty about the NAZI cache.

The nightmares had started after another man took the fall for the blood on Matthew Keller's hands. Neal dreamt about how badly Mozzie's brilliant plan had gone: What should have left them with everything went wrong in every possible way and after the smoke had cleared, Elizabeth was dead, and the treasure was gone. With Keller's sentencing, the stilled form of El in his dreams became Peter, and he'd wake up forgetting just who had died. Sometimes, the information wouldn't come back to him until he stepped off the elevator at the bureau and saw the living (or breathing, at least) form of his handler.

Alan Davis's life sentence lasted less than three months. Hospitalized, he never saw the inside of a prison cell. The state footed the astronomical medical expenses of easing him out of the world.

From the moment of his 'incarceration', the Davis family experienced one stroke of financial luck after another, while the FBI watched in impotent fury. Mrs. Davis found the funds for a surgery she'd needed, a new home, and car- the list went on. No matter how the FBI dug, the sudden fortune could always be legally justified. Either the family had discovered old stocks and bonds in deceased grandparent's names, or sold worthless mementos for thousands and thousands more than their worth.

His youngest daughter's finger painting sold for fifty thousand on eBay. Internet protection laws prevented tracking the buyers.

Neal anticipated Peter's complete breakdown with each passing moment, from Davis's timely and dramatic confession, to the smirk for posterity sake as Keller received a slap on the hand (with the promise of a following manicure).

The agent's heavy mask of composure had begun chipping away.

Without having pinpointed the exact moment it happened, Neal found that he was afraid of Peter Burke: Of the fallout and rage to come. Some selfish, scared part of him wished it would just happen already.

But when all the trials had been finalized, Keller was safe in a Chicago prison, and Davis was dead with the truth. Life went on, though no one was stupid enough to say it.

Peter had only taken an extra three days to close out a case dealing with insurance fraud; something that had taken months when it used to take him days.

It was an unremarkable Wednesday morning when Peter calmly walked into Hughes office with his gun and badge, and left with neither. He didn't say goodbye, although his CI had waited obediently outside the office. He only walked past and left Neal and the law behind.

Peter's resignation put pressure on the department to resituate Neal's custody. Only a few voiced opinions that he should finish out his sentence back behind bars. But his closing record (the one that belonged not to him, but to Peter) made prison seem wasteful, and the powers that be were content to keep using him.

It surprised everyone when Ruiz, the newest (and surliest) member of the White Collar division, volunteered.

Neal was wary at first, but as docile as he'd become and as ambitious as Ruiz was to prove himself, they got along well enough for appearance-sake.

On stakeouts or behind closed doors Ruiz was verbally abusive, even borderline physical, leaving bruises on Neal's thin arms as he dragged him from crime scene to crime scene, file room to office.

Neal got his coffee, answered his phone, filed paperwork and gave Ruiz his best ideas to take credit for. And so for countless hours, and days, and weeks, this became the new routine.

With three months until he was off the tracker for good, and a growing list of dull potential careers plaguing his waking moments, the last thing that Neal expected was unannounced company.

This time Peter was waiting in June's foyer, like it hadn't been months since the older man had resigned from his job, leaving Neal behind with the rest of the office supplies he hadn't cleared out. His face told of a long-standing concession to permanent five o-clock shadow, and his hair was a little longer, but he was fit and clean.

They took one another in, searching for familiarities: Peter was in a t-shirt and jeans but he still held himself tall, pushing against the invisible weight of justice and cheap suits. Neal's slightly rumpled suit was hanging in places where it had been nicely filled before. The whimsical fedora was nowhere to be seen.

The silence stretched on, and Neal felt old (but ever as raw) insecurities rise up when the former agent lurched forward. He'd started to raise his hands to defend himself, but Peter had only enveloped him in what he finally realized was a hug.

Neal returned it. It was the most contact they'd had since before the NAZI treasure. It was the most emotion he'd seen (let alone felt) from Peter in months. He soaked it in, and fought back tears of relief at the oh-so human gesture.

"I need your help." Peter stated gruffly into his hair, and the arms wrapped around his back almost seemed to tighten to a crushing degree, but then he let go, and Neal felt dizzy with how quickly the physical support was gone.

Neal meant to ask what he wanted but what came out was, "Anything."

Peter wanted information that his new handler would have access to; that he used to have access to, himself. They both knew Ruiz wouldn't hesitate to throw his CI in prison for as long as possible if he found out. But Neal got the information anyway. It almost felt good, slipping papers away beneath his jacket; feeling like he was helping Peter, despite knowing the opposite.

And so the former agent got files on every person Keller had ever been associated with (victim or ally), and offered nothing back, though Neal had a hundred questions he'd lost the nerve to ask. He wondered what Peter had been doing the last few months, where Satchmo was, and if some small part of the widower had come to Neal for help because he missed him.

Another month passed. Peter had started living with Neal. He never asked for permission, but they both knew Neal wouldn't deny him, and that was almost the same thing.

Usually he slept on the couch, but sometimes in the early hours of the morning he would slip onto the bed and pull Neal into a reluctantly unresisting embrace.

Neal would tense and shake, until Peter pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, whispering, "Shh, it's okay, baby. It's okay, El, I'm here." and then Neal would shake harder and cry.

He would lie awake in the strong, delusional embrace until Peter woke hours later and removed himself back to the couch.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Ruiz wasn't so tactful.

"Jesus, con-boy. If you're going to stay up all night playing hide the paintbrush with your floozies, at least caffeinate before coming in." Neal had fought the urge to retch then and there, although some distant, vindictive part of the old him wanted to ruin the scuffed, ugly shoes his handler wore.

But it was better to not make waves, particularly literal ones. His parole was almost up.

He had two months left. Two months and then he'd be of no use to Peter. He fought back the sensation of relief at the thought.

It was in the three week countdown to his freedom that the news first hit the White Collar division. Neal bit his lip, and fought down his panic. He wouldn't tell Peter. But he also couldn't stop him from finding out.

That same evening, Peter slipped into Neal's bed earlier than he had ever done before: It wasn't even midnight. The smaller man took over his part of the ritual, trembling in the unwanted embrace. It was a small comfort that he didn't cry anymore.

"Neal." the proper name was like a shock of cold water.

"Yeah, buddy?" it felt like treading thin ice somehow, speaking like this; actively being a part of the nighttime ritual.

"I need your help."

He'd meant to promise 'anything'.

"With what?"

"You'll have to come with me."

"I can't." So close. Freedom was so close. And then he would get away from prison, and crimes, the FBI and the twisted and broken man he would have given up everything for; but only ended up taking everything from.

Once, he would have done anything to be near Peter forever, but now... Now, though it shamed him, he would do anything to get away. And he'd disappear without the government on his heels. It wouldn't be the first time he'd run from trouble. But it would be the most legal and for the best reason.

Peter's short nails dug into the soft in-cave of his companion's stomach. He clearly hadn't expected Neal to not bend to his will in this, as with everything else.

Neal strained to make out the words hissed against his neck.

"You will."

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Gee whiz! I don't want to alarm anyone, but I think Peter's grief counseling didn't go so well.

I wrote this entire thing on my iPod, starting the very evening the season finale aired, so editing is a pretty intensive process (particularly when done in an environment full of barking dogs, and people who won't take 'Shut The Hell Up!' for an answer.) I think this chapter has more setup than any other, so… Bleh. Oh, if you notice obvious gaps in the plot, please let me know. I want to keep this at least vaguely realistic.

As the last line hinted, my Peter's about to go dark side-ish. If you're concerned, please keep in mind, that it is NOT my intention to make him 'bad'. Not at all. (The antagonist? Heck yeah. But never a bad guy.)

So, let me know what you think.

(Spoiler for the next chapter: Peter does not dress in drag and do the hula.)


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Stars That Fell (3/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13 for crime, and emo-ness.

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Abduction, not of the third kind.

Notes: This chapter was so much easier to polish than the last one. There is more dialogue, I think. Basically, this is where my story really starts.

-x-x-x-x-

June checked Neal's room in the morning when Ruiz called. She only found the ankle monitor, neatly locked around a rubber hot water bottle, lying on his bed. The key was discarded by it.

There was no indication of a struggle. Ruiz would never believe the former convict had been abducted.

No one thought of Peter.

Neal's own record worked against the notion of abduction. Why would he run with three weeks to go?

Why escape prison with three months to go?

Manhattan was a distant memory, hours gone in the rear view mirror. Neal hadn't been somewhere without skyscrapers in years, and the wide open space of highways, and winding backroads had the peculiar effect of making him feel as though he'd taken a dive off of the Empire State Building and landed in the middle of nowhere.

"Peter. You've got to let me go." Neal tried, tentatively. The former agent had only removed the clumsy silk tie gag half an hour ago, and his lips and tongue felt thick and clumsy; the taste of fabric lingered.

"This is illegal." he added, for good measure. Neal had seen Peter twist the law before; even enjoy the irony of loopholes that cleanly delivered justice outside straightforward channels. Somehow, he thought that would get through to Peter: That this time he wasn't bending, but breaking the law.

"You would know." Peter responded absently, automatically, and it was like a slap in the face. Neal twisted his wrists together but the cord was expertly tied.

And wasn't that a bitchy sort of irony? He'd never come across a lock he couldn't pick, but anyone who'd made it past cub scouts could trap him with the most primitive means. Peter Burke had always been proud of his Eagle Scout status. Neal doubted he'd earned it by kidnapping someone, though.

His heart was pounding, and he ignored the little voice that said this was the most alive he'd felt since before Peter Burke's life had gone to hell and he'd taken Neal with him on the emotional ride down.

"Peter, I only have three weeks left! Three weeks until I'm free!" the argument hadn't worked at June's, but this time his tone was lamenting, not pleading.

Peter finally turned his head to regard his unwilling passenger. Something like an apology was written across his face.

"I'm sorry, Neal." he sounded sincere, and the former-turned-current criminal latched onto the sincerity, desperately.

"We could say someone else- someone nabbed me. And-and then I escaped. And they'd take me back..." Peter was shaking his head, slowly, and then more violently, to match Neal's rising voice.

"No, Neal. That-"

Neal pressed on, pasting on a charming smile that had never worked on this particular man. He let his tone drop; he'd never tried seduction before. It felt dirty, was desperate, but maybe that would get results.

"In three weeks, I'll be free and I'll come with you." Peter looked over in surprise. Neal didn't wait to see if it was from intrigue or disbelief.

"Three weeks, Peter. And no one will come looking for us. You won't have to hide me. I'll walk out as soon as they cut the tracker. You can pick me up." he felt like crying, offering such a blatant lie.

The tears did choke him when Peter's mouth thinned in agitation.

"No. I don't have three weeks. He'll be out in one. And I need to be ready. I need 'you'."

And that's what it was about. Neal had known it, but even now he was in denial that Peter -his captor, and all around purveyor of the law- would be considering going after Keller; a man who'd murdered an innocent woman and served seven months for it.

"Peter..." the former agents knuckles tightened on the wheel, but Neal had to press his luck: Had to try to break through. With desperate chances, if need be. And this trumped them all.

"You'll be hunted forever. She wouldn't want that. Elizabeth-"

Three things happened in quick succession. The former agent threw on the breaks so violently that the car skidded sideways on the blessedly deserted two-lane highway, Neal shouted in terror, and Peter had a grip on his throat and in his hair before the screeching tires had even stopped.

The stinking smoke from burning rubber drifted away lazily, as Neal gasped and tried to twist his hands to scrabble at Peter's hand; the one cutting off his air.

The thought that Peter must not have been wearing his seatbelt drifted improbably into his head, and he considered telling Peter he should always buckle up, but that was ludicrous when he couldn't draw breath. Let alone expel it for the well-being of the man strangling him.

The grip on his throat loosened enough that he didn't feel like passing out: Enough to notice Peter's nose mashed uncomfortably into Neal's.

Brown eyes, narrowed in fury, trapped his own watery gaze.

"Don't you ever say her name." Neal blinked, releasing a tear, and three seconds later horror fell over his holder's face.

Peter released Neal before tugging him by his shirt front into an awkward embrace.

"I'm sorry! Neal, I didn't mean to- I'm so sorry!" he was shaking; they both were. Large hands petted Neal's hair; his back.

Neal gasped in a stuttering breath. It hurt.

"Just- I can't stand to hear it. Please don't say it." Peter sounded close to tears himself, and sickeningly, disgustingly, Neal felt guilty.

"I'm sorry." he rasped. "I won't. I promise."

Neal woke up as Peter lurked over him; face sharply featured by the interior car lights. The dusty parking lot of a no-tell motel was empty but for their car.

"Come on, buddy. I got ya." Peter pulled him out of the car, wrapping an arm around him; under his arm. He marched his captive to their room. The door was open, the room dark, and Neal dug his heels into the pavement. Peter was inexorable, though, and in a moment he passed through the archway into his own pitch Hell.

The lights came on, and Neal let himself be pushed into the bathroom, still groggy. Peter quickly untied his hands, and shut the door, granting him his first moment of privacy in two-hundred backtracking miles.

There was one door, which he'd come through, and no window. The pathetic hook lock wouldn't keep a determined three year old out.

Neal wanted to rant and scream: To cry and curse, and threaten. Instead, he used the toilet and stared at the shower longingly. But the idea of Peter seeing him naked as well as vulnerable was too daunting, so he only splashed his face and hair with icy water from the sink, and let the faucet pour over his raw wrists.

He delayed.

"Neal." the tone was firm. It said 'time's up'. Neal hadn't even bothered with the hook lock, but he felt a fleeting gratefulness that Peter was respecting his privacy: Enough to heel.

For now.

Peter had removed his jacket and spread the contents of his duffle across one of the full size beds. Neal was cautious.

His eyes were red; the marks against his throat were stark. Neal knew he looked pitiable; had made sure of it in the yellowed bathroom mirror. He looked up from under a fringe of tangled, damp bangs.

Peter frowned.

"Stop playing the victim." and that was that.

"I'm gonna get us something to eat, and I'm going to have to tie you up." Neal had expected as much. He put his arms out, obediently.

"No." Peter jerked his head to his left. "On the bed." Neal felt sick again, but Peter cut him off.

"Now, Neal." when his former partner didn't comply, he grabbed an elbow and dragged. Neal resisted like he had at June's; going slack, dragging his feet. But like at June's, Peter was still stronger; no surprise.

Neal landed with a scream of protesting bedsprings; tried to use the force of impact, to bounce back to his feet, but Peter was on him, pushing him flat. He was straddling him, and the full body contact, the suffocating weight finally caused Neal to snap.

For the first time since this had started he offered more than resistance; he fought. All of his feelings of betrayal at present circumstances, and the buried grief of everything that had transpired in the last months found their escape through kicking and screaming, until his limbs burned and the panic cleared to let him know Peter wasn't returning the punches that had landed. He was only holding on, absorbing the blows and radiating distress.

When Neal sagged in exhaustion, Peter methodically lifted his limp arms above his head, securing them separately to the bedposts, in a sick parody of the games lovers play.

"No. No." Neal whispered, but Peter was set in this course now. He couldn't give up, but they both knew there was no going back; not in any context.

"It's okay, Neal. I won't hurt you. Ever. I swear. I need you to understand that. Okay? Okay, Neal?" Peter's frantic voice grated at his nerves and he found himself wishing the man would stop sounding so damned pained.

'You've already hurt me. So much. Too much.' Neal remained silent.

But he was nodding, giving in. Peter had never lied to him before. Why would he start now that he really, truly needed Neal? Even if he wasn't sure why he was needed, he knew he was. And there was some comfort in that, tainted as it was.

His throat was sore from screaming and the earlier... 'incident' in the car, but that had been Neal's fault, really. He knew he didn't have the right to say her name, least of all to Peter.

"I'm gonna put the gag back in, Neal. I'll only be gone a few minutes. And then I'll untie you." the newly methodical, gentle tone soothed Neal's flayed nerves, and he opened his mouth a few centimeters. Peter worked the tie back in, tying it firmly (but not cruelly) behind Neal's head.

"I'll be back." he promised, but Neal didn't look away from the ceiling, trying to recall a time when he trusted Peter Burke.

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Phew. It feels good to get away from the bureau. Nothing like fresh air, eh?

Random confession time: I like Keller. I think he's an excellent antagonist, but I was disappointed that he'd use a Raphael and an Egyptian staff as bludgeoning tools. I went English driveby on the writers, shouting "I disagree!" at the television.

Chapters four through seven are completed, and only need a thorough comb through (or three) before posting, so updates should be pretty quick for now. I haven't settled on an ending yet, so... It could go many ways.

Questions, concerns, comments? (And a thanks to everyone who's already expressed interest!)

Chapter four teaser: Public nudity. (Seriously.)


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Stars That Fell (4/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: R for non-graphic sexual content

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Dub-Con (that is, sex of dubious consent). It's possible this whole story could be triggery, so I'll be sure to add warnings. It's the reader's job to take note of them.

Notes: This chapter will be a big test of my Peter as a sympathetic character. I'm walking a thin line, I know, because I don't want anyone to ever dislike him. It's especially difficult because most of the story is centered on Neal, and Peter's his antagonist. It's always easiest to side with the protagonist. (Excepting Pirates of the Caribbean. I'm on the BRN's side, every bloody time. Huzzah!)

For those who've expressed concerns, this chapter is decidedly lacking in dialogue. Sorry! (The next chapter is more talky… Uh, I think.)

-x-x-x-x-

'I hate him.'

Fury tore through Neal, leaving him tensed like a bowstring or violently jerking at his bonds: Shouting garbled pleas for help through the saliva-sodden gag.

'I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.' Mantras had always been more Mozzie's thing, but there was a vaguely calming effect in adopting a phrase to repeat.

An hour passed, tracked by the dim numbers on a digital alarm clock, which seemed to be glued to the rickety nightstand between the beds.

Hope reared up in Neal's mind that Peter had been caught, and any minute they'd find him, and know he hadn't willingly escaped. Despair followed hope swiftly, at the idea of Peter behind bars. That wasn't right. Certainly, he was the best man Neal had ever known.

Even if he hated him.

Another hour followed, and Neal had lost feeling in his hands.

A police siren sounded in the distance, growing louder. The high whir of noise cut through his head, and stale hope pulsed through Neal's body. It grew louder, and there was a tantalizing flash of red and blue behind the thin curtains.

And then it was gone, growing fainter, and Neal wept.

Fear curtailed doubt, and pricked his skin with nervous sweat. If Peter 'had' been caught, would anyone know where to find Neal? What if no one came to clean the room? It was dirty enough that Neal could believe it.

The manager would see the car was gone and think Peter had left without ever using the room. What if no one else got the room, for days or weeks, and they found Neal's body, bloated with death and filth? His mouth cracked and dry?

'I hate him, but I need him. Right now.'

Another hour.

Neal's morbid fantasies had left him painfully thirsty. The gag was dry and crusty, and he couldn't help tonguing at it, even though that robbed what little moisture remained in his mouth.

There was a flash of blinding light behind the curtains, followed by a crack of thunder so loud that he yelped, wrenching his shoulders with an instinctual jerk.

His fingers twitched uselessly, as he listened to a sudden gush of wind followed by thunderous rainfall. It taunted his parched senses. He was dying of thirst. He just knew it.

The ferocity of the storm built until with a warning flicker, the power died, and Neal was plunged into darkness that didn't tell time.

He thought of prison. Of the darkness and fear, and his body found the reserves to coat him fully in a cold sweat.

Where was Peter? What if he was hurt or dead? Who would help Neal?

He didn't hear the door open, but he did see the dark silhouette, demonically backlit by a sudden flash of lightning.

His scream was drowned out by the answering boom of thunder.

"Neal! Neal! Look at me!" that was a stupid request, some buried consciousness griped. It was too dark. The acrid smell of tobacco and the sour stench of whiskey invaded his senses. For one earth-shattering instant, he thought it was a nameless phantom from some spidery corner of his childhood, standing over him. But lightning flashed again and the expected features were absent. This face was soft and concerned.

Peter. Thank God.

He didn't recall Peter removing the gag, and cutting his wrists free; barely recalled gulping down a bottle of water pressed into his gracelessly numb hands.

But he remembered, perfectly, the sense of relief at being found; by the only man who could (would) always find him. He remembered the desperately sincere whispered apologies, and the lips pressed feverishly at his own.

He could never quite recall his confused, sluggish response to the kiss. But he felt like he'd only encouraged the advance.

Mostly, he remembered that when Peter found his release in Neal's aching body, he whispered "Neal. Oh, Neal!" like his heart had broken, and there was no other person, living or dead, who could have been made for Peter to love. Not like Neal, who had and did belong to Peter in every possible way.

It didn't matter that Neal was only half-hard the entire time, or that his cheeks were itchy from dried saliva. It wasn't an issue that his backside hurt as much as his throat and wrists, because now... Now he wasn't alone anymore.

Neal was sound asleep still when Peter woke up and staggered into the bathroom. But when the shower started, he stirred by some long forgotten habit: Back when you showered first, or made sure the person who beat you left hot water.

His groggy mind couldn't make sense of the situation. He was staring at the motel door for ten minutes before it all rushed back to him with the force of a freight train. It left him gasping and retching.

Slowly, like he was in a dream, weighted down from unknown forces, he staggered to his feet. He grabbed the first pair of pants he saw. They turned out to be Peter's jeans, and they sagged, sadly, around the sharp cut of his hips. He knew there wasn't time to roll them up; wasn't sure he had the motor function for it, at the moment.

Neal fumbled at the bedside table, reeling with fear; forbidding himself from looking at the bathroom door, and getting stuck in the terror of anticipation. The cold keys cut into his palm with the force of his grip, and he lurched towards the door, throwing it open.

The parking lot was still empty, but for Peter's car, and the chilled air (brought in with the previous rain) bit cruelly at his bare feet and chest.

He was having a hard time connecting his actions with reality, and it took him a minute to unlock the car door. He staggered back a step as he wrenched the driver's side open. Something like awakening sensation hit him. He was going to get away.

And then he was falling sideways to the cold wet pavement. Peter landed on him, wet, and hot, and steaming. He was only wearing a towel.

"Let go! Let Me Go!" Neal tried to scream, but the impact had winded him, and he was only whispering. His right arm tingled painfully. He hadn't even thought to break the fall.

Peter only hauled them up, and wrapped his arms around Neal's waist, hoisting his feet off the ground. He pushed the car door shut with his hip, and shuffled back into the room. When he dropped Neal on the nearest bed, and went back out to retrieve the keys (and his towel) Neal let himself fall back onto the coverlet and contents of Peter's duffle bag, staining everything with parking lot filth.

A moment later Peter yanked him back to his feet and Neal cringed, bracing himself for the punch he had coming to him. There was no getting around the fact that Peter looked tempted.

But after a tense moment, the anger faded away to a disturbingly familiar expression of disappointment.

"Come on." His captor said, and pulled Neal into the bathroom. The water was still running and the air was thick with steam.

Neal was shivering, anyway.

Peter only pushed at the soggy jeans and they puddled at Neal's feet. And then they were both under the hot spray that stung on Neal's cold, gravel-scraped limbs.

Peter pulled Neal back against his chest, and cleaned his captive; detached, clinical. Neal forgot to flinch when the soapy hand ran over his genitals.

But he did wince when they passed over his bruised hips, and the sensitive region that had been violated hours before.

"I hadn't intended-" Peter started awkwardly. He was sober now, clearly.

"I didn't mean to hurt you." he finished; the sound of his apology swallowed by the pattering roar of water.

Neal only nodded. He did believe Peter. But belief and forgiveness were far asunder.

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: I don't want to ruin the atmosphere I (hopefully) created, but I keep thinking of Howl's Moving Castle, and then I see Peter covered in green ooze, losing his towel in the resultant snail trail.

Yeah, picture 'that'.

I know what you must (might) be thinking: How does going to get food end up being over three hours in a bar? Someone should really have a talk with Peter about responsibility.

Chapter five teaser: Why the hell is Peter doing this? Stay tuned...

Quick note: I'm loving all the alerts and favorites I'm getting. But they're numbering something like six or seven times the comments. Hit me up, ya'll.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Stars That Fell (5/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13 for violence and naughty phraseology. (Egads!)

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: BACKSTORY (I think it's plausible. Even interesting.)

Notes: So now a substantial glimpse of why Peter's doing what he's doing. It doesn't meet Neal's approval.

(There's one backflashy sequence that may not fit, so well. But I wanted to keep the dialogue in, without summarizing everything, so… Sorry.)

-x-x-x-x-

After a hasty exit from the motel, and a cheap fast food breakfast, Neal found his will power.

Peter had lashed his hands together again. The former agent seemed to be stewing in his guilt, and that was just fine by Neal.

"So what's the plan?" he asked waspishly, for the petty satisfaction of watching Peter's shoulders hunch. They did, as expected. Peter kept quiet; also expected.

"We drive to Chicago, ambush Keller when he's released with some genius plan you think I'll come up with? Then you can tie me up and beat me when the mood strikes? Or f-f-" he hated himself for faltering, and ruining the angry tone of his speech. "-fuck me, whenever you feel like it, without my say-so?"

Peter remained silent, and hurt welled up in Neal. Maybe this was all some Devine punishment, but he didn't deserve to be ignored by the man Divinity had sent to deliver the blows.

"Well?" he shouted, and Peter jumped in his seat.

Neal hoped he was angry. Because Neal most definitely was, and if he couldn't win a physical altercation, he should at least be allowed a shot at verbal fighting.

"I don't-" Peter didn't sound angry. Neal tried to place the tone. 'Not mad. He sounded- fuck, he sounded remorseful.'

"You bastard!" Neal screamed and launched himself sideways into Peter. Their car swerved, nearly taking out a passing SUV. The vehicle swerved out of the way, horn blasting. Peter got Neal and his own car under control long enough to pull off on the side of the highway with a screeching stop.

"You fucking bastard!" Neal beat at Peter's shoulder and chest with his bound hands, screaming obscenities, until Peter got ahold of his flailing arms.

"You ruined my life! You took everything from me, again, and again!" Neal's fingers curled stiffly into claws that would have raked at Peter's face if they were free.

"You even took yourself away from me! You took my first life, and let me build my second around you, before you ripped that away as well! I hate you! You fuck!"

Neal shoved himself backward, and Peter let him go. Cowering against the passenger door, the younger man did his best to control the urge to lunge again.

"I deserve to know why."

Peter was still shaken from the unexpected outburst; pale and drawn. Still, some small part of Neal felt sympathy; could commiserate with the desperate measures a man might take when his greatest love had been taken so cruelly from him.

If anyone could sympathize, Neal could. And he hated the implications of that connection.

Peter had been there for him when the plane exploded: Had visited the prison every day under whatever pretense he could devise, to soothe, and listen. He was there for Neal, and had drawn him away from the edge. Peter had become more than Neal's anchor, then. He had become his port of harbor.

So Neal had done what he could for Peter, even while quietly assuming the guilt for Elizabeth's death. Maybe he wasn't as strong, or maybe Peter's hurt was just so much deeper. But this? This was insanity and betrayal intertwined so deeply that the man who had saved Neal was as dead as the woman who had caused this.

And Neal had mourned the loss of Peter Burke, too. But now the empty corpse was trying to drag him down, as well.

"Why?" Neal whispered; pleaded.

"Will Peretsky." Peter breathed, and all of the anger his captor had been feeling fled before overwhelming fear. Neal's mouth opened and closed compulsively as Peter's intentions clicked into place: The horrible, unfathomable plan for revenge, each step now so clear in his mind.

Click, click, click, click.

"You're going to use me as bait." It wasn't a question.

A person didn't become as infamous as Neal Caffrey without making a few waves in the criminal community. Some would risk the FBI's attention to go after him, directly; Ryan Wilkes, Matthew Keller.

Others had the means but too much intelligence. They could -would- wait years, until they'd been entirely forgotten.

William Peretsky was one of those men. He was young(ish), bloodthirsty, exacting, and he unofficially owned Chicago. Nothing happened in that city that didn't go through him. Most people were below his radar, too poor or unimportant. Matthew Keller wasn't one of those men.

Keller was smart enough, famous enough, and (most importantly) rich enough to be smack in the center of Peretsky's radar. When he got out, Peretsky's men would pick him up in a limo. And Keller was smart enough to go with him. For a fortune that Keller could afford he would be guarded and pampered for the rest of his life.

A favorite bird in a world-large cage.

Only one other person might have been more on Perersky's radar than Matthew Keller. Neal Caffrey wouldn't be expecting the VIP treatment, when (not if) Peretsky got ahold of him. His wings would be clipped, and he'd spend a long, long time atoning for his insults.

Neal had thought that New York would be better, bigger, nicer: The sweetest pick for a man with artistic sensibilities and quick fingers. So when Chicago was no longer a wise place to be, that's where he'd gone.

Once, he'd been a favorite of Peretsky; watched and cared for. He'd never seen a prison cell in Chicago. He'd never been in a Windy City courtroom. Peretsky was what you might call a connoisseur of talent, and no one had more promise than a pretty, charming boy from an unassuming background.

Neal had been pleased with the attentions; had cooled his heels in a jail cell for minutes because, yeah, he was caught red-handed, but as soon as bail was set he'd be released. All without ever having made a phone call.

It was a sweet life, where he learned his thieving skills without real consequences until his curiosity had him seeking out his benefactor.

Peretsky was around ten years older than Neal, plain of face and build; but never unassuming. The man wore his power like a dark cloak, inherited from his father, and his father before him.

Peretsky was never overtly 'bad'. He didn't need to raise his tone to convey his displeasure. He didn't carry a weapon, or suffer his men to hurt 'innocent' people.

Neal had liked him. He had liked Neal, adopting him like a younger brother; going to Wrigley Field or the Sears Tower to laugh at tourists.

Neal felt like he was the best friend of the most powerful man in the world, and thought that if anyone should have that power, it was so much the better that it belonged to a man like Peretsky.

But power was never bloodless, and his intimacy came with strings. Neal saw men who'd done wrong (sometimes inadvertently) suffer thrice what they deserved.

So Neal had balked, and Peretsky let him have his space for a while before pulling him back in. Neal did 'favors' for the man: Stole information that led to more men and women being reprimanded.

Sharon Hellsing had been the person who had turned Neal entirely. She was low on the radar: Under it, really. Her inadvertent screw-up on paperwork she didn't know was connected to Peretsky's transactions saw her strung up and tortured for three days.

She never knew why. The killing had been for the sake of principle. Peretsky had proved to any potential adversaries that everyone was his concern, and screw-ups of any sort would be punished.

Neal had given up the information behind her death sentence, himself: Had laughed, at the time, spoken some inane words like, "All this because a payroll technician at some nothing firm forgot to carry the one."

A week after Neal had delivered his 'report', one of Peretsky's men caught up to him, slipping a wad of bills into his windbreaker. He'd congratulated Neal on catching on to the embezzlement scam.

"Embezzlement?"

"That accounting lady. Peretsky lost over fifty grand."

Neal had felt so cold: and the Windy City was suddenly, singularly, still.

"It was an accident. I was watching her for _weeks_. She drove a Golf, for Gods' sake! Sent her kids to a second-rate daycare."

"No one ever said 'she' got the money. But she did lose it to the boss. Bad for business, right? You can't let that slip, you know?" the man had laughed, punching Neal playfully in the shoulder. The money-heavy pocket of his jacket bumped his thigh.

From that moment, he'd turned all his (by then considerable) skills to monitoring Peretsky's doings; seeing Hellsing's orphaned children in his nightmares.

He fled Chicago after dropping a package off at city hall.

All the considerable charges against Peretsky were eventually buried under favors and obscene amounts of money; but Neal had made sure that the man who'd kept him out of court was obliged to go himself.

The media was bribed, threatened, and blackmailed into downplaying the case. But the day Neal handed Agent Peter Burke a ten cent sucker, he saw that all charges against Will Peretsky were dropped.

It was a matter of time, Neal knew, before he paid his own dues. Sharon Hellsing had accidentally- unknowingly cost the man fifty thousand, and had been tortured and killed for the principle of the matter. There was no telling how much Neal had cost him, and his offenses had been very intentional.

Honestly, he tried not to think about it. Like death, it was something on the horizon, but not something that was healthy to dwell on.

But this?

Peter was shoving him into the picture; forcing Peretsky's hand. And if it was a matter of keeping face or keeping Keller with his ill-gotten fortune... Peter wasn't so far off the mark with thinking he had the better hand.

Money could be 'made', but a reputation? Some things conveyed more to your peons and thugs than a wad of green paper, and a few old paintings.

That death on the bloody horizon was suddenly looking a lot closer, and a lot bigger.

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Aha! We begin to see the big picture, we do. I actually really like this chapter. I didn't space out once, while re-reading it. I think it's about time Neal had a big-time adversary who doesn't look like he's been sucking on lemons. Honestly, every time I see Adler, I imagine baby cooing sounds, like he's got an invisible pacifier in his mouth. It's creepy and weird.

Editing at work is harder than I thought it would be. Please let me know if you see anything blatantly wrong or bad, or plot-holey. (As opposed to non-blatant wrong, bad, and plotholey things that are a result of bad writing. I'm used to those.)

Chapter 4 had around two hundred hits, and one comment… Just saying, ya'll.

Chapter Six Teaser: Things get intense.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Stars That Fell (6/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: PG13 just because...

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Some morbidity, and the very end gets pretty (I hope) intense.

Notes: This is a short chapter, because I could NOT resist the cliffhanger. Even my original unpolished block of story marked it with a break for dramatic emphasis. And that was before I ever began to 'consider' sharing the story.

-x-x-x-x-

"He won't just kill me, Peter." he wasn't trying to change Peter's mind or shame him. Not just yet. The enormity of his realization was keeping him in shock. Peter was just a sounding board for his own thoughts.

"He'll torture me... For as long as he can. Whenever he's about to make a new deal, or connection, he'll show me off like a prized piece of art. 'This... 'thing', here? This is what happens if you turn on me.' He'll keep me alive until I can't even remember how to want death."

Peter's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. It was getting to be a habit.

"It won't go that far." the former agent sounded unsure, himself.

"My being traded for Keller or my being tortured beyond madness?"

"I lost... Her. I can't let that pass. But I won't lose you, too."

Neal knew he was nowhere near as valuable to this broken man as his wife had been, and the presumed flattery in that statement fell magnificently short of reassuring him.

The question, with the potentially sickening answer, was whether Peter valued Neal's life over Elizabeth's vengeance.

"If you go through with this, you've already lost me."

Peter didn't respond.

Illinois was spectacularly boring. Neal had always wondered how miles of flat farmland hid something as grand and notable as Chicago.

He watched another field of some plant he didn't recognize go by.

Peter had taken to compulsively fiddling with the radio. Ordinarily, channel surfing drove Neal crazy, and the constant static to music, to static, to ballgame set his teeth on edge, but it was better than the silence.

He knew Peter was filling the void because he thought Neal was thinking up some irrefutable argument to change his mind, but Neal was drawing blanks. Rather, he wasn't even trying.

For Peter, it was over: One way or another. There was no legal loophole to kidnapping, raping (or something like it), conspiracy to murder, blackmail, and whatever else he'd done.

Neal wasn't willing enough; hadn't retained enough love and respect to sell himself out for Peter's benefit, but he knew it was over for him as well.

There would be a manhunt out for him, at the least. Possibly for Peter, too. Whatever the reality, Neal knew the FBI wouldn't be the only ones looking for him.

It may have sounded strange, but you felt Chicago before you saw it. Having been born and raised there, for Neal it started as a tingling in his legs that settled like a weight in his stomach, and made him squirm impatiently in his seat.

They'd stopped at an innocuous gas station less than an hour before, but Peter asked if he needed a restroom stop.

He shook his head, mutely, but when skyscrapers became visible, far in the distance, he choked out a 'Pull over!'

Peter pulled off the shoulder, and further, stopping a quarter mile from the access road.

"Untie me." Neal ordered thickly, before the dust from their off-roading venture had settled, and it was the sickly sheen of sweat on his face, perhaps, that convinced Peter not to argue. He untied the cord, and stepped out of the car as Neal staggered a dozen steps from the Ford Escort, that had been his prison for what felt like eons.

That mornings' greasy breakfast, and hundreds of miles of stewing poured out in dizzying waves, and Neal choked on bile as tears welled up from the force of the heaves.

He heard footsteps, and twisted an arm back, palm up.

"Leave me alone a fucking minute, will you?" he shouted, throat burning with the foul combination of bile and fear.

The footsteps halted, and then (however improbably) receded.

Experience told him this was the only chance he'd get.

Neal glanced between his legs, forearms braced on his thighs. Peter was leaning against the driver's door, the vehicle between them, watching the highway with his back to his captive. Dusk was setting in; the sky a garish red-orange.

The younger man continued coughing, feigning dry heaves, although his roiling nerves and building adrenaline might have supplied the real thing if he'd let them.

They were on the further outskirts of Chicago. Just short of respectable neighborhoods of mcMansions, which were short of suburban paradises of varying worth.

This far out, there would be stock yards, train tracks, and the occasional wooded patch.

One such smudge of trees lay in his sights. It was two hundred yards away... Or thereabouts. A thief's depth perception worked better in close proximity.

Neal's limbs trembled as though he'd already crossed it.

"Go!" he thought to himself. His body jerked, but remained rooted to the spot in terror. A cold sweat broke over his body.

'Go, dammit!' he whispered, wishing he'd kept up his physical strength in the past months, as Peter clearly had.

He was so hopelessly out of shape.

'GO!' Neal's brain screamed, heart lodged somewhere behind his teeth. One knee broke from its locked stance, and the sudden jolt almost sent him to his knees, but for the grace of a higher power he didn't believe in.

He ran.

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: I hope you all are too busy demanding to know what happens next to read these notes. So… Uh, yeah.

Questions, concerns, comments? Pretty please?

Chapter Seven Teaser: The hunt is on. Tally ho!


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Stars That Fell (7/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: NC17

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Non-consensual sex, of dubious origin. (I don't know why it seemed plausible when I wrote it… But I did. And it stays.)

Notes: I don't remember my mindset when I wrote this, but if any chapter is going to cause discomfited squeamishness, here it is.

AGAIN, this may be triggery. You 'have' been warned.

-x-x-x-x-

Earth; both hard-packed and unforgiving, and slick with residual rain water, jolted and hindered Neal's flight.

He didn't scream; couldn't open his mouth. Air burned his lungs as he forced it through his nose.

The woods loomed tantalizingly close and still maddeningly unattainable. Peter had shouted an instant after he'd made his move, but clearly his concentration was on the chase now.

Ditches, stones, muddy puddles, and snagging brush tried to trip Neal up but he didn't stumble. And even as he sent up a prayer that something had slowed the former agent, he broke through the tree line.

The trees were scrawny, but densely packed; a struggling remnant of nature in a post-industrial age.

He fought the urge to look back and gauge how far behind Peter was, and instead set to cutting diagonally at a moment's notice; swerving, and zigzagging as he went.

It wasn't like a chase through Manhattan, where any alley could be a dead end, but then Manhattan was home to a million doors and obstacles that could be used advantageously.

"Neal!" the familiar, but oh-so foreign voice screamed –roared-, not particularly near, but sudden enough to break its prey's focus. The toe of Neal's shoe (the last real article of clothing he wore that was his own) caught on a root and he went down hard, scraping his palms on rocks, roots, and acorns.

When his burning, shaking limbs caused him to stumble as he attempted to gain his feet, he gave up on flight. He began crawling as stealthily as he could; looking for refuge.

The leaf-slicked ground tilted and Neal just managed to get his feet behind him as he skidded three, four feet downward. Icy water licked his ankles as his feet settled in a stream bed.

Crouching low, he listened.

Peter didn't call again, but by the sound of snapping branches and huffing breaths he was at the place where Neal had fallen: Only fifteen feet from where his prey cowered.

Neal didn't dare to look.

He yanked his tee shirt (Peter's shirt) over his mouth and nose, pressing his palms tight to muffle his own panting.

When the pounding in his ears subsided, he finally noticed how quiet the world had become.

He couldn't hear the former agent.

Terror, and not relief, struck him. It was so much less frightening when you knew where the monster was: Even if it was close.

The former conman hunkered down in concession to the shaking of his knees. The seat of his pants, and back of his thighs were soaked through in icy water, and he fought against his body's attempt to chatter his teeth. Peter's borrowed shirt clung damply, offering no relief from the chill.

The sky was still red, ablaze with the final vestiges of daylight, and Neal found it within himself to be vaguely astounded. Had it only been a few minutes since he'd fled?

Neal tried to take stock of his options, fighting back the impulse to simply burrow his way into the stream bed, and lie there forever. He wasn't under Peter's thumb, but that didn't mean he was (heh) 'out of the woods' yet. He was without a phone, but he was close to civilization.

A civilization owned by a ruthless crime lord bent on his total destruction. And possibly, also within feet of a man who wanted to give him up to said crime lord.

There was a sharp snap: a crack of twigs or branches, thirty feet to his right: Too large to be a bird or squirrel. Neal sank down further, feeling the current tug, insistently, at his sodden clothing, as though to pull him away from danger.

Peter was as bad as a bloodhound, Neal knew. He wouldn't abandon his prey even when treed. He'd stay in the woods, hidden, waiting for Neal to sneak out under cover of darkness.

Waiting... In the woods.

Neal almost gasped at the inspiration. Peter wouldn't expect him to move now. Not when there was still light. And certainly not back to...

The car.

Even if Peter had taken the keys, Neal knew how to hotwire. Knew the model, and his fingers twitched like they were already forcing the engine over.

The tank was over half full. He could make it out of Illinois before calling the FBI.

It seemed like a solid plan (or at least a passably decent one), but it all came down to what he knew about Peter. On that account, he wasn't too worried. He 'did' know the man, as well as anyone.

Lately, even better.

The real problem, Neal decided, was that his friend-turned -tormentor might be hiding anywhere. And as far as real problems went, that was an especially bad one.

But one thing Neal knew for certain was that it was often better, safer to be on the move; A rolling stone gathers no moss- and all that nonsense. He ignored the weak part of him that wanted to stay put and cry over how unfair his life had become. It was getting harder to ignore, but with the dim prospect of freedom on the horizon, he managed.

Neal chose to follow the stream west, back the way he'd come, while he could still follow the sunset. It was almost cathartic to his jittery nerves, following the light while darkness spread to his back. The riverbed turned north, and he climbed out, after a skidding misstep or two. He kept low: Kept silent.

The great outdoors, or city limit equivalent, wasn't his ideal terrain, but stealth was always in his arsenal of skills. He was relieved that those instincts hadn't faded in the last few, docile years as his physical stamina had.

He hesitated at the edge of the trees, marking the growing darkness until he could pass as a shadow, and then he moved towards the highway; just an ant line of headlights.

Neal couldn't see the car, as low to the ground as he'd kept, and with the twilight obscuring everything, but he knew it was between the trees and the highway. So he chose a direction, and began trekking southwest for some minutes. Upon finding nothing, he back-tracked a more northerly course. Some part of him worried that Peter had taken the car, or moved it… But he dismissed the possibility, out of hand. There was no chance Peter had given up.

After nearly an hour he stumbled upon the shape of the car, glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Neal fought the urge to throw his exhausted body over the hood, thinking Peter might have set the alarm somehow to warn him should Neal make such a risky move to escape. He needed to be ready to go, and fast, if it activated.

Approaching the passenger side slowly, keeping low, he scanned the interior for dark shapes that weren't seats.

It was empty.

Finally allowing himself a small sigh of relief, Neal stepped around the back of the Ford.

He hadn't even registered the dark shape before he was being yanked forward- down.

The former criminal had forgotten that while he knew the former agent, Peter Burke knew 'him'. Somehow '2 for 0' hadn't ever really clicked in Neal's mind. Make that '3 for'.

Neal fell hard, entangled in limbs that weren't his own.

"I won't let you leave me!" Peter hissed, although he wasn't out of breath. There was no telling how long he'd waited by the car, knowing Neal would return.

Neal fought, using every dirty trick he hated, but Peter was ready for each one. Clean fighting might have done better.

"Let me GOOO!" Neal shrieked, and a knee to Peter's ear (by chance more than design) allowed him to his feet. The larger man let out a sound between pain and blood-curdling rage.

Not quite incapacitated from the blow, Peter stumbled to his feet as well, catching Neal by his dirt-stained shirt; swinging him sideways. Neal hit the hood and doubled over, scrabbling at the smooth surface for purchase, and the air that had been knocked out of his lungs.

Peter pinned him with his own body, grasping for the wildly flailing wrists. He caught one and wrenched it back; higher than strictly necessary. Neal bit off a moan of pain, lashing out with his feet.

He didn't think of Peter's expression earlier that morning (and had it only been a few hours) when Peter had caught him trying to escape. That look had suggested the temptation to hurt Neal for his actions… This one, as best as he could make out from only peripheral vision, conveyed more than temptation to make him suffer. It promised he would.

Not knowing the manner of rebuke he would suffer, Neal fought for his life. His heel caught Peter's inner thigh: High, almost debilitating. His captor didn't allow for a second shot. He kicked Neal's legs apart, pushing his own legs between.

"This is how you want it to be, huh? Fighting dirty?" Peter's voice was more primal growl than human, and it scared the Hell out of Neal.

He got ahold of Neal's free hand and pulled it to the other, high on Neal's back, before yanking up the water-logged shirt. The collar dug into Neal's throat. The back pinned his arms, hem folded up and drawn over his shoulders, leaving most of his back exposed to the cold air.

"Stop! Stop! Let me go!" Neal pleaded; buried suspicions confirmed when Peter started tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

"I can't let you run!" Peter's voice was frantic, desperate; even scared. Whereas the night before, the older man had sounded regretful and even guilty at taking advantage of Neal's vulnerability, now he only seemed crazed.

The vulgar sound of spitting broke through the panicked whimpers and pleas, and Neal struggled for any kind of purchase to fight back, or escape. Calloused fingers found the bruises they'd left hours earlier, refreshing them.

Neal fought back a sob, not wanting to give in; not physically or emotionally.

When Neal's abused body grudgingly gave in, he bit his lip bloody, but Peter was inexorable. A hand at Neal's neck pushed his torso down, buying leverage.

It was several long moments before Neal comprehended that his tormentor was babbling; something about Neal belonging to him, about 'needing' him.

The second thrust was smoother, slicked with pain.

And somehow, still, it hurt more that Peter 'would' be doing this, than that he 'was' doing it: Made it that much harder to search for the right words that had never before abandoned him.

"Peter- Peter, please stop. You're hurting me. Peter Burke wouldn't do this!"

"I can't let you-" the larger man faltered, confused. Human. The ever-calculating part of Neal's mind latched onto this.

"I won't run again. I'm sorry! Jesus, I'm sorry. I won't run! You're hurting me! Please, Peter!"

All at once, the world stilled. Peter gasped, hands releasing their cruel hold on him.

"Oh God. Oh God, what am I-?" he made to pull back, and Neal shouted in agony.

"I'm sorry. God, Neal- Hold on. Easy, just-" it was a sickening minute before Peter had extricated himself.

The former agent fell to his knees, retching. Free from the pressure pinning him down, Neal slid a little but his damp shirtfront kept him from tumbling entirely off the hood. It was easier to tune things out for the moment, than to reflect on the pain radiating throughout his body.

He retained enough presence of mind to flinch violently when Peter touched him again, but his assailant only carefully removed the shirt.

With his numb arms free, Neal acted on the impulse to strike out twisting to deliver punches wherever he could. His aching arms, and numb legs wouldn't cooperate, and he only dropped.

Peter scooped him up, propping him against the escort as he removed his own shirt.

Neal whimpered at the implication but was hushed, ineffectually. Peter scrubbed the thin streaks of blood from his groin with a feverishness bordering on the hysteria he'd already displayed, with a constant litany of "Oh Gods..." to punctuate the motions.

"Calm down!" Neal was about to snap something cutting back at Peter, when he realized the words had been spoken by himself.

"I- Neal, I-" Peter began, reaching out to touch his victim's face, and pulling back before Neal had even finalized a reaction to the gesture.

The former agent methodically folded his shirt, cursing and refolding, until it was just right, before placing the poor makeshift padding on the passenger seat. He lowered the chair to its fully reclined position, and herded Neal in.

Neal didn't bother fighting a hiss of discomfort, and settled on his left hip. He ignored the seatbelt uselessly, but perfunctorily draped over his waist. The interior lights faded a few seconds after the door was shut to his back. He tried to tune out the whimpering sobs leaving his mouth.

There was a loud bang; that of a shoe hitting the car frame. An enraged shout, and curses outside but Neal ignored that, as well.

The trunk opened. Closed.

When Peter settled in the driver's seat, he was in fresh clothes. Slowly, carefully, he settled a jacket over Neal's bare torso.

It smelled like Peter, and against all reason, that was comforting.

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Uh... Yeah. Well, no one can say I didn't warn them. So Peter kinda lost his shit, for a minute. And here, some of you may have been hoping Neal actually managed to escape, and then BAM! Captured, and worse.

Wow. You know, all along I was like, "I'm so gonna post this." And when it came down to it, I was like… Well, maybe I'll just remove that line… Oh, and this is just far too crass. Does anyone need to know 'that'? Nope, gone.

I don't like censoring myself, but I've had a rough day, and the final edit was making me a little green.

So, yeah… This is the 'tamer' version of this chapter. Peter/Neal-wise, this is absolutely the worst it gets. So, if you're 'still' reading, it gets better.

Chapter eight teaser: A little redemption...

Overall teaser: There should be nine or ten chapters, total. (Plus an epilogue.)


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Stars That Fell (8/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: NC17

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Non-con emotional fallout. Also, consensual sex. WTF, right?

Notes: Peter and Neal confess a few things, that shouldn't matter anymore. But do.

I would have waited a day or two to post this, as it's my last completed chapter, at the moment, but... Well, I understand the previous chapter came as a shock. So I think this may help a little.

-x-x-x-x-

Neal awoke to near-darkness, but for threads of sunlight that slipped past the curtains of the motel room. He faintly recalled falling asleep the previous evening to a torrent of apologies he had paid no mind to. He hadn't forgotten what had transpired, but he was pleasantly numbed to the physical and emotional, at the moment.

Peter sat on the opposite bed, elbows to knees, gripping his hair. He didn't appear to have noticed his companion was awake.

"Are you alright?" Neal asked. Peter had coaxed pain pills into him, he could tell. That warranted some superficial concern... Or not. Did it really matter whether he cared or not, anymore?

Peter was quiet for so long that Neal contemplated returning to sleep.

"She asked if I loved you..." Neal's blood ran cold.

"What?"

"E-El... She asked if I loved you, when we thought you were going to disappear with Kate."

"Wha- And?" Neal struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. Peter continued staring at the floor.

"I said, 'Yeah, sure I do.'" Peter's head tilted upward, as though to seek out Neal's face, but either he lost his courage, or the fascination of the carpet proved too much.

"In what way?" Neal asked, unsure if he wanted an answer.

Peter laughed. It sounded like a sob. "That's exactly what she asked. I didn't know. I- I still don't."

Neal huffed, disbelievingly. "Hopefully not like a brother. Or I hope you were an only child." the noise Peter made couldn't even be loosely considered a laugh. Neal was vaguely astounded that he had meant it humorously.

He blamed whatever medication he was on.

The silence lingered, but it was charged.

"You're beautiful, you know." Peter offered, and Neal found himself irrationally irritated, beyond his pain and fear. There was a time when he would have willingly agreed. In the last few years, though, he wasn't buying it.

"I'm not- I wasn't... I'm not gay." Peter said, and continued before Neal could rebuke that. "But you're beautiful, and I love you."

"And that might have meant something three years ago. Now it's an insult." Neal cringed at his own tone, was angry to feel guilty at Peter's silent acceptance of the accusation.

"I fucked up your life long before I felt I had any right to blame you for the mess mine has become." Peter conceded. "But there're no do overs in life. And I never would have deserved your love, like I never deserved hers, because I'm not sure- No, I am sure that I'd still have to do this."

This...

"Peter, look at me." Neal said, and when the older man didn't move he let ice seep into his tone.

"Look at me. Now." Peter did. His eyes were red, but dry. Either the tears hadn't come, or they'd passed already.

"You raped me." he paused a moment to catalogue the subtle way Peter paled. "And you still intend to turn me over to an even worse fate to avenge a woman who's dead." Anger flickered over the former agents face but he fought it back.

"So please don't say you do, or did love me. Call Peretsky and hand me over to my torture, kill Keller, and then rot in jail, until you die and rot in Hell. That will make everything aaalll better."

Neal shifted in the car, feeling pissy: Justifiably so, he thought. The topical antiseptic ointment Peter had procured was doing it's job well enough (damage had been mostly superficial, thank God) but it left him itching in sensitive places.

He hadn't spoken to Peter for two days, most of which had been spent in the motel. The closer they came to Keller's release date, and 'the trade' the more disturbing Neal's musings had become. He'd developed a morbid humor that would have repulsed him only a week before.

He fought back an instinctual urge to point out landmarks in the gridlocked windy city, tried not to notice faces they passed by, in case one was familiar.

He was finally coming to terms with everything, and had decided in the grand scheme of things that Peter's attack was less important than the pains he would be suffering shortly.

Not that he was letting it go. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

"Neal-" Peter had adopted a tone of voice, while addressing him, that Neal associated with death beds. Like if he spoke too brusquely, too loudly, Neal would crack in half.

"Rapistsays'what'?"

"What?"

"...That wasn't as funny as I thought it would be..." Neal frowned, discontented. It figured. He probably wouldn't get a very good last word in.

Hell, his last words would probably rate somewhere around "Gychh guaaah."

'If anyone could make those work, though...'

He laughed abruptly, before a fresh wave of tears hit.

Peter never failed to handle his crying badly. He'd said once that he couldn't handle women crying, but he seemed to be having a difficult time with Neal, too.

The only time he'd tried telling Neal to 'cowboy up' (the previous afternoon, when Neal refused to eat) Neal had hit him so hard, he'd split his lip.

After that, Peter had tread softer. Well, he'd flailed ineffectively, and tried to placate out of striking distance.

Neal was finding he had a small amount of power over Peter, by his rapidly changing emotions. Unfortunately, he was finding it difficult to keep with any one feeling long enough to use it manipulatively.

Still, when he said he was hungry, or ten minutes later that he wanted coffee, the former agent nearly killed them, cutting lanes to find a restaurant (well, fast-food joint) that he thought Neal would like.

The only thing Peter wouldn't do was stop talking, and it was driving Neal crazy with distraction. He didn't want to hear Peter's plan; knew there was no way Peter could get Keller and keep him. And he resented Peter's efforts to draw him into the scheme, saying so. It felt like a lie; and Neal refused to let Peter think this was some risky sting they were planning, with Neal as a willing operative.

They were in the lion's den, so to speak. Peter had purchased a nice hotel room, which Neal suspected was less for comfort than for the proximity to a police station (irony, anyone?) and the rent-a-cop security employed 24-7.

Neal wondered if that would matter. Killing a police officer (even a moonlighting one) was an emphatic 'No' even to someone as powerful as Peretsky, but bribery or blackmail were commonplace.

Peter was betting his own safety on the moral integrity of someone who needed a second job eyeing up tourists.

"He'll probably just kill you right off. You were stupid enough to bring me into his playground."

Neal's tone was high; stringy. Lately, he'd given up on speaking much because he found the sound of his own voice made him nauseous, like hearing someone from beyond the grave.

Peter was quietly imploding, as his lingering morals fought his all-encompassing hatred.

He'd left Neal alone for half the day; presumably to begin putting his exchange in motion. He'd tied Neal to the bed, but hadn't gagged him. Neal hadn't even tried calling for help before the sleeping pills kicked in. Peter was back by the time he'd woken up, talking about his ever-changing plan with a vaguely hysterical edge to his voice.

From then, he was with Neal at every moment; hovering In the doorway of the bathroom, back to his captive, as Neal used the facilities. Showering with him, because Neal couldn't muster the care to bathe of his own will. But his touches were perfunctory, and detached, and that hurt almost as much as his harsh advances from their previous sexual encounters.

The night before Keller was to be released, Neal slipped out of his bed, and into Peter's. His wrists were tied, but he hadn't been strapped down, because the former agent didn't intend to sleep.

Peter tensed when the smaller man curled into his side, arms flattened between them.

"I hate you." Neal whispered, and the former agent twitched. "But I don't want to be alone tonight. Hold me."

"I'm sorry." Peter breathed, but he dutifully turned to wrap his arms around Neal, drawing him in.

"I know you are." Neal said, resting his ear on Peter's chest. He felt, more than heard, the steady thump of a heart he'd almost convinced himself wasn't there.

They were silent, listening to the eternal hum of traffic; painfully like New York City, but for an undefinable 'feel'.

"You can fuck me. If you want." Neal offered, without emotion, and the arms around him tightened.

"I- I won't-"

"I loved you, too." Neal added. Peter's breath hitched.

"Don't do this..." the steady 'thump' beneath his ear sped up, but Neal ignored the pain in Peter's voice.

"When I made the deal with Fowler and you caught up to me at that hanger, I was scared. Because I wanted Kate but I wanted you more. Even though you had her-"

"Elizabeth." Peter offered, and Neal was only mildly surprised. Full-out shock would have taken too much effort.

"You had Elizabeth," Neal agreed, ignoring a lingering wariness at saying her name. "But you cared about me. I loved you so much- I would have let Kate go, and lived off of my fantasy that we could have been together." It would have hurt to admit this, even a few weeks earlier, but now there was only nothing. Or so he convinced himself.

"Why are you telling me this?" Peter breathed.

"Because I hate you. But I still love you, and I'm scared, and I'll never be able to tell you, after tomorrow. So you can fuck me, and I can try to pretend that we're two people who love each other. And- and soon I won't know that it wasn't true, and I can hold on to it."

The silence lasted an eternity, as Neal breathed in the scent of Peter's bare skin, and Peter's stilted breath ruffled his hair.

When the older man moved to untie Neal's wrists, it was sweet relief and bitter disappointment at once.

The cord was tossed over Neal, to land in places unknown. Peter turned onto his back, drawing his arms to his sides.

"I can't, Neal."

Neal sat up, confused.

"What?"

"You were right. When this is over, I'm going to prison. Either I'll turn myself in, or they'll catch me. And until I die, I'll remember what I've done to you. I'm sorry. I've been a monster, and done unforgivable things. But I can't pretend."

Neal laughed, outright. Peter didn't blanche, and the hard smile on Neal's face dropped away like a stone.

"Are you serious?" he prodded Peter hard, in the shoulder, but the larger man was unmoving. Frustrated, he hauled himself on top of the former agent, straddling boxer clad hips.

"You- You forced yourself on me twice. At least once... And now I'm asking and you're saying no?"

"I'm saying I can't pretend."

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Neal's fingers dug into well-toned shoulders. He gauged the eternal misery on Peter's face, satisfied at least that he wasn't avoiding eye contact.

"So don't pretend." Neal snapped.

"You don't-"

"Shut up!" Neal leaned in, pressing his lips hard to Peter's.

The move was mechanical, void of any good emotion. Suddenly he was doubting his ability to carry through, because while he WAS good at sex, he hadn't actually ever done it without lust.

But then Peter's hesitant hands were cupping his head, and he was parting his lips and Neal's cold resolve to separate the emotional from the physical cracked. With a sob, all his built up rage, and impudent fear, and years of longing churned inside to create one blissful, terrible, faith-shaking moment of connection.

'I hate you! I hate you!' he thought, because when it came down to it he found he didn't want to pretend, either. He wanted it to be real, and there was no reason in the world to want that.

Gentle as they'd ever been cruel, Peter's hands mapped the smooth planes of Neal's back; slid his boxers down so slowly that the fabric tickled and electrified.

Neal reared back, pupils blown, mouth slicked and swollen from the frantic kiss. With less grace than he'd ever employed, he shifted, pulling a leg free of the undergarment, before kicking it off the other leg. He settled again, shoving at Peter's boxers.

"Wait, Neal. Slow down-" Peter started, grasping, but Neal twisted his hands out of reach.

"I can't- can't-" Neal insisted, reaching down, grabbing at his captor's turgid flesh: Grounding himself in the knowledge that physically, at least, Peter was able. Hating that he was.

"No! Neal, stop!"

"What gives you the right?" Neal shouted, voice faltering, and tears threatening until he'd blinked them away. He found positioning was impossible, and dropped his hands to the flat stomach below him, scratching red lines into the shivering flesh, as he balled his fingers into fists. Peter flinched at the pain, but kept his hands to himself.

"Nothing. I hurt you, and I don't deserve forgiveness but I am sorry. Don't 'make' me hurt you, again."

"I want to hate you!" Neal insisted, but he wasn't sure if the words were meant for his former friend.

"I know."

"Please, Peter, prove me wrong... Or right. I need to know." Neal begged; old insecurities fighting new terrors.

"Calm down. We can do this right." Peter whispered, but he was doing a poor job of being calm, himself.

He reached sideways, scrabbling for the duffle crammed onto the night table, scattering socks and toiletries with his one-handed search. Neal blinked at the procured tube until Peter's fingers were coated in its contents. The smell of lavender made him dizzy, and he couldn't decide if using Elizabeth's favorite hand lotion made this sweeter or unbearably disgusting.

When blunt fingers pushed slickly at his barely healed entrance, he forgot the smell.

It hurt. Probably because of the 'last time' but he pushed past the pain, emotionally, while Peter worked past the physical.

Neither one of them were practiced in this, but Peter was a fast learner, and Neal was discovering there were perks he hadn't considered. A thick finger nudged his prostate and he cursed fluidly.

Sensing the reaction was a good one, Peter continued the motion, adding one finger, two, at an infuriatingly slow pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck... Now. More. In. Now." Neal demanded, not noticing the latticework of scratch wounds over the other man's torso.

Peter fumbled with the lotion, and neither of them registered the overpowering scent. When he began to push into Neal again, they were both overcome with the sensation. Neal thought he felt the cold bite of a car hood, the stale fear-sweat dampness of a dirty motel room.

But when Peter breathed out his name, he only felt the heat between his thighs, in him, and remembered almost four years of this man becoming- being his world. And fuck-all if that wasn't still the case, in the worst possible way.

"I'm so sorry, Neal. I'm so sorry." Peter babbled, and he was thrusting up, but Neal's own movements were out of synch, so they rose and fell at the wrong times.

Peter was too busy tracing his fingertips over Neal's slick sides and chest to grab the narrow hips and force them to cooperate. Or maybe he was afraid to.

When, by chance, Peter brushed Neal's prostate, the latter stumbled into a more productive counter rhythm, and as they moved, Neal caught Peter's hands, locking them together with his own.

Peter came first, and accepted the sensation overload of Neal's continued movements as his due. And when Neal was finally spent, both their hands working in unison, he also quietly bore the mess between them and all the con man's weight as added penance that could never be enough.

"I hate you-" Neal said, and Peter started to say something when Neal jabbed him hard, in the side, with an incredibly boney knee.

"I hate you so much that being in love with you is very fucking inconvenient."

"I have to- Neal, I-"

"I know!" Neal snapped, but still didn't move off of him. As far as post-coital bliss went, this was one of the worst.

"I know. You still have to turn me over to get fucking Keller! If you apologize one more damned time-"

"The idea was never to let Peretsky have you." Peter insisted, desperately. Neal shivered at the name.

"Oh, right. You're just going to dangle me like a carrot, and hope everything goes well." Well, just because he'd refused to listen didn't mean he hadn't heard days of scheme-ridden babbling.

Peter's intentions meant nothing to Neal when he was a pawn in this game. Oh sure, it was preferable to keep your piece. But it was acceptable to lose it. They were both aware of this, and no amount of planning could hide that key piece of information.

"We've taken risks before." Peter hedged.

"There is no 'we'. You are endangering me without my consent."

"I need you to trust me. I- I'm fucked up, I know. And if you ever had reason to believe in me, I destroyed it- but you have to trust me."

"I can't."

"I need you, too." Peter's tone was urgent, desperate, and Neal thought about all the times Peter had saved his life.

"I can't."

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Ack! From here, all I have are (admittedly extensive) notes, and long patches of conversation as a clue for how to finish... And the epilogue, for some reason. But at least that means I know what I need to write.

The next chapter takes place somewhere in the middle of this one, and is from Peter's POV. Shocking, right?

The few people who've commented have been very respectful (and I appreciate it) but to anyone silently discontent, I feel I need to remind you that these characterizations are my own interpretation based on a dark universe I designed. Everything that my characters do is plausible in my mind, and in my story.

(Oh! And I forgot who mentioned it (several chapters ago) but as the show never explicitly stated he admitted it (only that it was suggested he 'should') Keller never confessed to killing that man in 'Bottlenecked'. That's part of the reason he was able to buy his way to such a short sentence: He never had murder pinned on him.)

Chapter Nine teaser: Meet Peretsky, whose name has no nationality I know of because I made it up.

((30 alerts… You guys are reading it, but what are you thinking about it? I'd love to know.))

-x-x-x-x-


	9. Chapter 9

Did ya miss me, kiddies? Wait- No. Put down that pitchfork! Don't- Jus—Aaaaaggghhh!

**Title:** Stars that Fell (9/?)

Au**thor:** Ima Pseudonym

**Rating:** PG… For villainous metaphors?

**Summary:** When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

**Chapter Summary:** Immediately before the happenings of chapter eight, Peter enacts the first part of his desperate and dastardly plan, and contacts the man behind the Windy curtain.

**Pairings:** None, this chapter.

**Warning:** This is in Peter's POV (and it takes place **JUST BEFORE CHAPTER 8**)

**Notes:** Ha! You thought I was dead! All this waiting, and you get a glorified (and boring) phone call.

-X-X-X-X-

Peter felt alone; bared to his blackened soul as he navigated the crowded sidewalks of Chicago.

The city was vibrant, alive, and full of the sounds of shouting pedestrians and round-the-clock traffic. It wasn't so different from New York, really, but for an indefinable feel.

Maybe it was the bloody history? Shady characters and deeds writ into the stone facades: Like Manhattan stagnated.

He'd left Neal drugged to unconsciousness in their hotel room, with over-the-counter sleeping pills. After that first drunken night, he hadn't had the heart to gag the younger man. Some small part of him (the surviving piece that had dedicated its will to loving Elizabeth, instead of hating her murderer) hoped his former partner would wake up before he got back: Escape, or successfully call for help. That ashamed part of him was clinging to a prayer that Neal would do what he'd always done, and so well; escape.

Because Peter was too weak to just 'let' him go.

But those thoughts, no matter how human and grounding, were of no use right now. He pushed unselfish hope away, and ignored how it was getting harder to do so.

Only the thought of Keller's imminent release and his shrinking window of opportunity allowed (compelled) him to continue, and he couldn't let something as useless as sentiment waylay him.

It hadn't been an easy journey; becoming the monster he was now. It had been inexorable, yes. Or so he thought. But never easy.

Every step down into the Hell of his revenge had been with the calculated loss of something. His job, his friends, his dignity, his morals…

When he dreamed of Elizabeth's fright and how it must have been in her final moments... Or when he couldn't bear to remember Neal's expression of anguish and betrayal... He'd almost become grateful for the immense hatred he bore to Matthew Keller.

That hatred let him forget how much he hurt. It made it possible to focus on what needed to be done.

And right now he needed that focus.

He had nothing like Mozzie's amazing memory, but he'd laid eyes on enough cases related (however ineffectually) to Peretsky to pick up on a recurring name.

-X-X-X-X-

The 82nd Street Delicatessen was entirely unremarkable except that it was located nowhere near an 82nd street.

The owner had been a suspected peon of Chicago's top crime syndicate for years, but red tape and professionally fabricated alibis kept him and his deli out of the muck.

The clientele seemed innocuous: Just hungry Chicagoans on their lunch breaks, passing in and out of the doors.

Peter passed through himself.

"I'm looking for a Simon Braddock." he told the young man at the counter, who only pointed to the small office behind him.

Peter braced himself, trying to banish his edginess along with his guilt; trying to focus on the moment. The precautionary gun tucked against the small of his back was doing rather the opposite of putting him at ease.

He opened the door and stepped in, uninvited.

Simon Braddock was unassuming; small and sharply-featured. 'Rat-like', Peter would have likened if he were feeling poetic.

"Hey, buddy, what-" Braddock, demanded, and his voice was an indignant squeak to match his appearance.

"I need to talk to Peretsky." The former agent cut him off, not wanting to mince words with the lowlife employee of a lowlife crime boss.

The man looked as though he were going to laugh, but reconsidered at the hard set to Peter's mouth, and frowned instead.

"That so?" Braddock's voice fell short of confident and irritated. It was clear he was shaken by the random demand of a man who could bench press him. Peter didn't bother posturing, thinking (correctly) that the stony set to his eyes and mouth would be enough to unsettle the peon.

"I have something he very much wants." Peter continued, feeling more at ease by the second by the knowledge that the gun wouldn't be needed, as the middleman paled, and then opened his mouth in one final attempt at argument.

"So you can either get ahold of him, now. Or answer for standing between him and what he wants, later." Peter would have been lying if he said he wasn't enjoying this, just a little.

Or a lot.

In spite of what he'd become (or maybe because of who he'd been), watching ne'er-do-wells squirm gave him a pleasant feeling of achievement.

Braddock continued to gape; fingers twitching toward the cellphone clipped to his belt, and finally (after some apparent deliberation) he delivered an unconvincing shrug of nonchalance.

"No skin off my nose, huh?" he removed the phone, and swallowed thickly as he hit a few buttons.

Peter waited, patiently, dismissing the idea of picking at his nails or brushing invisible lint from his sleeves. Braddock wasn't someone worth the arrogant postulating, and Peter didn't play 'that' game so well, when it could be avoided. Blunt was his style. And he knew how to make it work.

"Yeah, I got someone who wants to talk to the boss. He says it's important- No, I don't- Just put him on, yeah?"

Braddock slowly handed the phone to Peter.

"I hope it's good, for your sake." He sneered. Peter only smirked. He didn't need to point out it had better be for both their sakes.

"You have my attention." the voice on the line was calm; unruffled. Peter ignored how it raised his hackles. He didn't need confirmation. This was Peretsky.

"Mr. Peretsky. My name's Peter Burke."

"Mr. Burke. I'm a busy man. This had better be good." Peter almost rolled his eyes. Just exactly what happened when someone had something 'bad' to impart?

"Matthew Keller is being released in two days." he got right to the point.

"Is that a fact?"

"You can get him. And I want him." there was an incredulous pause, followed by the muffled sound of Peretsky sending people away.

"Burke... Not former FBI agent Burke?" there was definite interest in that oily voice now; something close to a perverse amusement that set the former agent's teeth on edge.

"The same." he affirmed, reigning in the impulse to growl.

"I've got my suspicions, Mr. Burke, but indulge me. Why would you want Matthew Keller?"

"So I can kill the man who murdered my wife." Somehow the words surprised him, though he'd thought them half a trillion times since the inception of this crazy plan. Saying them out loud, and to a man with a power to make them reality sent unpleasant chills racing down his spine.

"Vengeance is a powerful thing, Mr. Burke." William Peretsky's voice was indulgent; patronizing. Peter almost felt like pulling the cellphone away from his skin, afraid of getting the filth of the man's very existence on him.

"You know what I'm offering, then: Revenge being so powerful." there was another brief pause. Peter took the moment to eye the middleman before him. Braddock seemed uncomfortable by the scrutiny; the attempt at bravado gone entirely, as he cowered by his desk.

Making the call would either mean great things for him... Or very, very bad things. He was a go-between, sure, but most people didn't walk up and demand to speak to the boss directly, right off the bat.

"I can only imagine you have a certain young man in your... 'Possession'. But of course, you know that Mr. Keller means quite a lot to me. Maybe as much as that young man means to you... From what I've heard."

"Then you can appreciate just how much your new 'possession' means to me, that I'm willing to trade for mine."

"Mr. Burke, are you aware that I have a sweet tooth?" Peretsky said, suddenly more animate: Definitely amused, now.

Peter frowned, thrown off by the non-sequitur. "I hadn't been privy to that information, no."

"You see, I'm a man who likes to have his cake, and eat it, too. You can't hang onto your slice, forever, but I'm in a position to outlast you." Peter grimaced. What was it with 'super villain' types and metaphors? All the same, he'd expected this. He'd planned to play the verbal game, though he would have preferred not to.

"And if I 'eat' my slice now, I'm in a position to make sure we both lose."

There was an angry silence, but then Peretsky's laughter crackled over the line.

"Disposing of your possession would scarcely be a thorn in my side, Mr. Burke."

"But I think it would be. I think you're a man who has a lot to lose. Certainly more than a man of such limited means as myself. I think that what I have is far more valuable to you, alive, in a sense, than a few extra dollars."

"I see. Then let us abandon the subterfuge, as much as I enjoy a good analogy. You think Mr. Caffrey, as my possession is worth billions of dollars?" his tone was convincingly incredulous, but Peter saw through it.

"You know I don't want the money. Find it, take it. I only want Keller. It's not his company you want him for, anyway."

"That's true enough, if an oversimplification. No, the problem I'm having with your 'proposal' is that I think you have no intention of handing over Mr. Caffrey, dead or alive."

"A year ago, you would have been right." The words threatened to catch in his throat.

"And now?" Peter wasn't sure if the lack of amusement or nonchalance was a good sign or a bad one; but he was relieved that Peretsky seemed to have started taking him seriously.

"Now... Now, I'm tired. And nearly through. Now I want my revenge, at any cost." He let his genuine exhaustion seep into his words, but the next hardened back to steel. "And I want a straight answer, Mr. Peretsky."

Braddock sat heavily on the edge of his desk at the sharp command to his overlord, but Peter ignored him.

"I've never been fond of demands." Peretsky's tone was cold; blood-chillingly so. "But I can tell you're beyond silly concerns like your own life. I do want Caffrey. And I want Keller. So my "straight answer" is that you're going to have to wait."

"Wait?" Peter repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, wait. At least a day. You scheme, I scheme, and tomorrow we meet, face to face, to finalize our exchange. Or not..."

Really, what else could he expect?

"Fine. I'll be back here tomorrow morning, at eight sharp. Have your henchman give me the location, then."

"I can tell this will be an interesting meeting, Mr. Burke. Now if you'd please put my, heh, 'henchman' back on?"

Peter scowled at the plastic device before holding it out to the now sweating crony.

"It's for you." he didn't look back, as he left the deli.

-X-X-X-X-

So now he'd taken one more willing step towards his damnation and as a bonus would get to meet with the devil, himself.

A face to face with Peretsky.

It was surreal to think that within twenty-four hours he might have the vengeance he'd set out to exact so long ago.

He wondered if Keller's cooling blood on his hands would make him feel any better, and knew it wouldn't. Especially with Neal's symbolic blood already there.

TBC

-X-X-X-X-

**A/N:** I'm so not satisfied with this chapter. But then I've written this entire thing on an iPod so that makes the writing process somewhat slower, and I lose half my ideas before I can peck them out.

This chapter is meant to focus on Peter's hatred that pushes him into evil deeds. The next one is meant to help him focus on the good and then wish he hadn't been such an asshat, because life is about sunshine, and good memories, and blah-di-blah.

In case you're worried, chapter eleven and the epilogue will be back to Neal's POV.

I'd be happy to explain my unacceptable delay in completing this story if anyone's interested in many well-thought out excuses.

Chapter ten is... Ehhhh, 'mostly' written. And the epilogue's been done for months. It's chapter eleven that's a bitch.

**Chapter ten preview:** (Immediately following chapter eight) Peretsky enjoys a nice cup'a (coffee) and Peter comes up with a plan to save his cake- uh, I mean, Neal.


End file.
